Prince of Traitors

Jasper

The man's gigantic two-handed sword drops from his grip and he rushes to Owin. They grasp each other tight, his arms wrapping nearly twice around her. Nimia runs out from the woods where Kieran and I told her to wait and bounds for the man and Owin.

"Dad!" she cries, and the man—Emlyn—opens his arms to envelope both the girls. He bows his silver-haired head to kiss each of them on the cheek. He pulls away from them only for a moment, to press his forehead to each of theirs for a moment.

I have to lower my gaze at the sight of Owin and Nimia's father embracing them. I suddenly miss my father and my brother in a way I haven't felt for a very long time. My eyes burn and I have to blink back tears.

But when I look up at Owin, her father is staring daggers at me. He pushes past Owin and Nimia, and takes up his claymore as he comes toward me. I realize too late that he's charging me, and I raise my sword just in time to block his strike—but just barely. His weapon slams against my sword, jarring my arms and knocking me to my ass. He stands over my, covered in blood and all to willing to spill mine. Fear spikes through me.

I hear yells all around me: Owin and Nimia screaming at their father, even Kieran shouting for Emlyn to back off. He pauses, his claymore held aloft above me.

"Dad, stop!" Owin demands, stepping between me and Emlyn. "He's with us."

"He's an outsider," he growls.

"He's a friend," she counters.

Nimia nods her head frantically. Emlyn peers at his daughters, at Kieran, but he still doesn't lower his weapon. "You vouch for him?" he asks.

"We all do," Owin says. "Please, drop it."

Emlyn frowns at Owin, but the stern expression on her face must sway him. He lowers his claymore, slamming the blood-soaked point of the blade into the ground so it stands upright, and steps back from me to let Owin help me to my feet. I sheathe my sword, trying not to let my nerves show on my face as I look Owin's father in the eye.

He's big, not just in stature but also in his presence. I can feel the power and authority he exudes. His silver hair is long, gathered back and braided at the sides, his face angular and his beard thick and closely trimmed. His shoulders are broad, his body muscular under the leather epaulets, bandoliers, and belt crossing his torso above his shirt and trousers, his worn leather boots reaching his knees. His clothing and the side of his finely lined face are splattered with blood.

"This is Jasper," Owin says warily. "He and I have been traveling together for a few months now."

"I, uh—" I stammer. "I-it's a pleasure to meet you, sir." I extend a hand for him to shake.

Emlyn peers at my hand, but he doesn't take it. "An outsider helped my daughters?" His voice is low and icy, rough like stone against stone. I shrink under his scrutiny and drop my hand, wipe my palm against my grimy trousers.

"He saved my life, Dad," Owin adds. "Nim's too. He's earned my trust, he deserves yours too." Emlyn only frowns.

"He's earned mine as well," Kieran says. I glance at him. His honesty surprises me even now.

Emlyn considers Kieran for a long while before his silver eyes slide to me. Now that he's not trying to kill me, I get a good look at his face. He looks strikingly like Owin: high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that gently slope upward at the outer corners. "Very well," he says shortly. He looks me up and down, and I fidget, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "I will allow him to stay. For my daughters' sakes."

He says nothing more. He just turns and yanks his claymore out from where it stands upright in the ground and sheathes it across his broad, muscled back.

*

"I thought Navaarim were nomads," I say as I set a pair of buckets down on the ground beside the smoking remains of a burnt-out house. I straighten, my back cracking heartily.

We've washed and changed our clothes. Owin sticks close to me as we spend the day helping the Navaarim clean up and make repairs to their home. The soldiers had sent a few arrows lit on fire into the settlement, but they had only hit the one house; the people living there managed to get out with minimal injuries and will stay with others until a new house is built for them. Some others help to clear the bodies of the soldiers from the ground, transporting them somewhere else to be burned to ash.

She shakes her head. "Some tribes are," she says. Her face glistens with sweat, her hair tied in a braid that swoops over her right ear and over her right shoulder. "But we haven't been nomads for generations. Why do you ask?"

"Your village is just, uh, not what I expected," I reply.

Owin snorts. "What did you expect?"

"Not this," I say with a chuckle.

The Navaarim settlement is surprisingly big, built on a sort of series of plateaus along the mountainside. Tall evergreens and draping willows tower above the village, hiding it from prying eyes. Small buildings are positioned in several clusters along the hills, the ground winding between them worn to smooth dirt from years of feet. There are little houses and workshops. I see a blacksmith's forge, a cobbler, a seamstress. The makeshift dirt road winds between the buildings up to a sort of central square, a wide clearing where a large circular structure stands.

There's a huge fire pit outside the circular building, and a maypole decorated with browning ivy that probably blooms in the spring. All the buildings are made from stone and wood, with thatched roofs and rough stone chimneys that leak smoke up into the sky. A narrow river winds its way past the village off to one side, fed by glaciers and waterfalls further up the mountain.

Thin ropes are tied to the rooflines, draping dozens of rows of small white prayer flags above the road and between some of the buildings. The maypole up at the top of the road by the fire pit is laden with these strands of prayer flags. Thirteen little ropes fan out from the top of the pole, anchoring to the rooflines nearby. I'm curious about what they're for, but I'm so tired that my mind doesn't dwell on it for long.

Owin laughs a little. "Well, I know your arrival here was a bit harrowing," she says. "Sorry about my father earlier."

I shake my head. "You don't need to apologize," I say. "I get it. I'm an outsider, after all. He was only trying to protect you. Kieran behaved much the same way when we first met."

She shrugs. "Even so." She sighs and wraps her arms around her ribs. She stares off into the middle distance, watching her village. "We got lucky," she says. Her voice is soft. "We were left with only some bumps and scratches."

"I'm just relieved we finally made it here," I say. "After everything we've been through."

Owin nods, a soft smile on her face. She looks out over her home, her arms wrapped around her midsection. She looks pensive. "Me too. I can't help feeling the worst is behind us now."

A smile crosses my lips and I feel an overwhelming urge to fold Owin into my arms. My heart feels lighter, my blood thrumming not with nerves and fear but with relief. Hope. Still, I don't reach for her.

Instead, she reaches out and takes my hand in hers. She interlaces her fingers with mine, and this time she doesn't pull away.